Rust
by WolfsLegend
Summary: What is it? This premonition that the ground beneath her feet will cave in, that the world itself will devour her. A feeling so thick and vulgar that it drains the very color from her eyes, rips the spine and sinews of shape around her until only one thing remains? It is something that demands attention.


What is it? This premonition that the ground beneath her feet will cave in, that the world itself will devour her. A feeling so thick and vulgar that it drains the very color from her eyes, rips

the spine and sinews of shape around her until only one thing remains? It is something that demands attention. It burns through prosthetic veins, eats away at amputated nerves, and pushes her down to the point where there is nothing but the abyss beneath. What is it, this feeling? This great emotion that suffocates her, drowns her in an ocean so great and so wide.

 _Shh, mon amour . . ._

It is a weight against her shoulders. It is the bile in her throat. It is the agonizing throb of her imitating heart, a pain that forces her to grasp her chest; quell the wild beat, calm the wild push and pull.

 _It will be all right._

She falls to the floor, metallic knees thudding against the wood, and heaves. The cry is ripped from her forcefully, ears flopping back as she reels back and screams against the

turmoil, against the pain, and the sorrow. It's animalistic, pouring every ounce of emotion that runs through her. It's raw, a myriad of memories and possibilities, of a past and a nonexistent future. It reaches a fortissimo, twisting and warping in sound as it tangles in the silence only to cut off with a deafening crack of chords and a storm of gasps. Yet, despite the haunting despair, she doesn't cry, even as her claws rake into the wood, even as her fingers bleed.

Even when the room, a hospital room splattered with "Get Well" cards, flowers, and balloons, begins to twist and turn, emotion painting the white walls, the gray floors, and the blue chairs black. Even when the world becomes engulfed in memories, every sense dedicated to a relapse into the past, she doesn't shed a tear.

The day they first met. His blond hair was a mess, his honeyed words slipping over one another. He'd been uneasy. She'd been enthralled. The day he offered the ring. He was-the first date they share-the first kis-the first-day-

 _Je t'aime, mon amour, mon Bunnie._

Her whole body vibrated, trembled as her robotic insides whirled and crackled against the effort, against the force of emotion and desperation. She'd dealt with tragedy before, with death after death that held more remorse and despair than the last. Yes, it came with the job. Being a veteran Freedom Fighting had as many cons as it had pros, and saying goodbye to those at death's door was no exception. The worst goodbye had been with Amy Hedgehog. She hadn't wanted to die, and she'd lasted longer than the medical field officers had predicted. She'd been so optimistic then… _It will be all right, Bunnie. This is nothing!_ The wound, a gaping hole in her mid-section, spoke otherwise. Maybe if she had been younger, maybe if she hadn't been colored and tainted with old age…

 _Mon Bunnie, ze promise. Promise to smile, oui?_

Smile, he says? Bunnie's gears grated as she reached out to the foot of the bed. False nerves and copycat muscles shaking as she stood, and when her milked eyes finally took in the room around her, she nearly fell back on her knees. Antoine D'Coolette, the most captivating coyote and kindred Mobian she'd ever met, reseted soundly atop a mountain of pillows and sheets. His once fair-blond locks were degraded with white, age creeping along his muddy-brown fur and peachy muzzle.

Time was her enemy, without a doubt. Ever since she'd been cursed with robotic appendages, a body of counterfeits and lies, she hadn't aged. No amount of upgrades, of fancy parts, and the long ago experiments with a younger, livelier Tails had given her time. Yet it had improved one thing, emotion. She could feel it now, empathy thrumming through her to the point of vomiting, but it was never enough. She could scream to her heart's content, scream until her vocal chords spasmed and fizzled and snapped like her guitar's strings. But tears… tears were not something she could do. Nonetheless, she craved to cry. Needed to cry, release it all in a waterfall.

 _I love you._

This feeling, it is dread. It is remorse, a brimming basin of sorrow and anger. A boiling demand for change, a miracle. Yet no manner of promises, no amount of screaming and wishing and dreaming will silence the droning beep of the ECG or the sea of nurses and doctors pouring into the small hospital room splattered with "Get Well" cards, flowers, and balloons.


End file.
